I'll Protect You (Original Version)

The poor decisions of Logan Cross

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Park

"It's Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday!" my dad sang. Yes, you indeed hear me right. My father was singing to Rebecca Black as our local radio station blasted it through our speakers. Technically speaking, it was our Smart TV which had a button that allowed us to access any radio station within range.

"Looking forward to the weekend. Partyin', partyin', partyin', YEAH!" and he fist bumped the air. "Come on, Park, sing along with me."

"No."

"Please, sweetheart? You used to sing along with me all the time when you were young."

"Correction: I hummed Beethoven and Mozart as you taught me about world history. And as of this moment I am merely choosing to not participate in a foolish and childish act." I then proceeded to take a sip of my milk. I nearly spilled it, and received a milk mustache as a reward.

"Congratulations, you are now in possession of a larger vocabulary than Jasper," my father muttered as he resumed scrubbing the oily pan with an abnormally large and pink sponge.

Reason number three as to why I decided to flee from Cimeria for a while: so I didn't have to deal with my little brother's abnormally advanced selection of vocabulary despite his age.

And my father was wrong: I have had a larger vocabulary than Jasper, I just chose not to show it.

Archer knew the most words along is though. But thinking of my dear older brother hurt too much, so I pushed the thought of him not showing up for the holidays and the birthdays out of my head and continued glaring at my cereal--well, what was left of it.

The doorbell sang its melody. My brow furrowed as I glanced towards the doorway. We never had visitors. I was a lonely little teenager with no friends and my father never had the time to settle down and frolick with the neighbors.

"Will you get the door, Park?" my father requested. "I invited someone over this morning."

I gave him the eye, my mind conjuring up about fifty different possibilities of who was standing outside the door. I took another swig of my milk before dashing towards the white painted oak-wood door.

"Cross?" I gaped. Then I rubbed my eyes furiously and squinted at him. Was that really him? There was someone standing there, their wet hair being dried by the early sun, the morning glow producing a rather angelic look. It quickly turned demonic as his golden eyes narrowed.

"Hats aren't allowed at school, Sparrow," he ordered, gesturing his chin towards the white beanie that sat on my red hair.

"Um, pardon me, but who's wearing the flat bill here?" I snapped.

"I have hat hair."

"Curly hair looks good with this beanie."

"That's no excuse."

"Just shut up and come in."

Logan smirked, pleased with my reaction. "Why, thank you, princess." He stepped in, and dusted off the bottom of his black sneakers with the sleeve of his jacket. Logan followed me back into the kitchen where he caught sight of my dad, scrubbing the dishes with a pink sponge while wearing a frilly white apron with apples and pies decorated all over the fabric.

"Morning, sir," Logan said, bewilderment in his voice. My old man's wide beaming smile challenged the dawning sun's radiance as he saw Logan standing by my chair.

"Well, good morning to you too, Logan!" he greeted enthusiastically. So enthusiastically that I pretended to loop my fingers in a He's-Crazy motion.